The Marshall Plan and the Tree of Life
by Macalaure
Summary: Inspired by the prompt, "A list of books to help rebuild a better civilization." It's sort of an explanation of my choices in the form of a story, with each character representing one book. I'd be interested in seeing how many references people can pick up on. A complete list will hopefully be given at the end, offering a more straightforward explanation.
1. The Art of Give and Take

I have no idea if this is a commonly traversed community or if anyone will read this. For anyone that does: welcome and thank you. We can write for ourselves, but on this site, we write to be heard, so any hearing that you can accomplish is a gift.

This story was based off a prompt to make a list of books to bring if you were trying to rebuild a better civilization. The list was originally ten works of literature, but for the purposes of the story it was expanded to twelve (and also to link to Montag's line in the novel).

I'd be interested in seeing in the comments how many of the references people pick up, since none of the books are explicitly named in the story and some of the books themselves are pretty obscure (though I assure you if you miss them it will be due to my failure to integrate them properly, not your ability to find them). Regardless, I urge you to sit back and enjoy a FanFic based on one of my favorite stories, across any platform, of all time.

I am planning to give an explanation of the list in a separate chapter at the end.

* * *

"On each side of the river stood the tree of life, bearing twelve crops of fruit, yielding its fruit every month. And the leaves of the tree are for the healing of the nations." [1]

Timmy Sanchez jumped down from the shelf he had been sitting on at the sound of footsteps down the hall. Pausing at a window, he turned his gaze outwards to see if he could spot anything new. As he expected, it was the same as always. As his view rotated, he saw the blue and green globe streaked with white begin to occupy the space of the small window.

He turned away and returned his attention to the sounds. He followed his ears until he reached the "kitchen", where Mrs. Margaret was puttering around at the stove.

At his touch, the door slid open and Mrs. Margaret turned around, smiling as she saw Timmy. "Sit down honey, I'll get you some breakfast in a moment."

Timmy walked over to the makeshift table and pulled up a cargo crate. Mrs. Margaret turned around with a bowl of milk and the box of awful cereal. Timmy groaned and made a face. Ignoring his charade, Mrs. Margaret poured a healthy helping of cereal into the bowl and dropped a plastic spoon in. She sat down opposite him, motioning for him to eat.

Mechanically, Timmy moved the food from the bowl to his mouth, pulling another face as it made contact with his tongue. Somewhat satisfied, Mrs. Margaret stood back up and returned to the cabinet with the box. Over her shoulder she asked, "How are your parents doing, Timmy?"

Timmy shrugged, "Mom was having some cramps last night so dad took her up onto the deck."

Mrs. Margaret smiled knowingly and then the door slid open and Peety and the Captain walked in. Timmy took advantage of the distraction to dump the rest of his cereal into the waste chute and show himself out the other door.

He darted down another hall opposite to the one he entered before his presence could be missed. Ducking into a small room, he started when he saw the seat next to the big window was already occupied by an old man. Although surprised, he was not displeased. Timmy cleared his throat and sat down on the floor beside the old man. The man looked down, smiling and set aside his mug of imitation coffee. Small curls of smoke rose from the mug and filtered into the vent in the roof.

"Hello Timmy," the man said, adjusting the spectacles on his nose.

"Hi Mr. Kain."

"Well I assume you've either come down to this here room because you're hiding or you want to hear a story," the old man stared intently at him. Timmy looked guiltily back.

"Well, which is it then?" Mr. Kain asked, laughing.

"A little of both, I guess," Timmy replied.

"Oh goodness knows, of course," he replied, "Now let me see, have I told you the tale of Beren and Luthien?

Timmy shook his head violently, drawing another laugh from the old man.

"Well then, there once was a man who was looking to avenge the death of his father. Wandering through the forest, lost and alone, he heard beautiful singing drifting through the woods. He came upon a clearing whereabouts he saw the most beautiful maiden he had ever seen, singing and dancing. She saw him also and for both of them it was love at first sight…" He paused at the sight of the look on Timmy's face and chuckled.

"Is the whole story gonna be like this?" the boy asked.

"Don't worry, it gets better," he promised. "So when the man, who was of course Beren, saw this maiden, he knew he must have her as his wife. So he went to find the king of the realm who happened to be an elf known as Thingol. Thingol, however, did not want his elven daughter marrying a mortal man so he set Beren on what he thought was an impossible task: fetching the Silmarrils from the crown of Morgoth. I have told you about the Silmarrils before, yes?"

Timmy nodded, now interested, and the man continued with the story, "So Beren set off on the quest to save the Silmarrils from Morgoth's grasp. But he was captured by an evil servant of Morgoth, Sauron, who also happened to be the one responsible for the death of Beren's father. At this point in time, Thingol's daughter, Luthien, snuck out of her father's realm to follow Beren, intending to help him on his journey, with her, she took the mighty hound Huan. Together, with Huan, she rescued Beren, and they returned to their quest. The two soon found themselves at the castle of Morgoth. Huan quickly slew the guards, and when they approached the throne of Morgoth, Luthien used the magic of her music to put him to sleep, allowing Beren reach up and cut a Silmarril from the black crown. But before he could take the remaining two, he accidentally struck Morgoth, who awoke. They fled the castle with a werewolf on their tail. The fight came to a head and werewolf bit off the hand of Beren that held the Silmarril. With the help of Huan, the two escaped and returned to Thingol's kingdom. When the king saw the bravery of Beren he finally agreed to allow him to marry Luthien. But Beren felt his half of the deal was unpaid so he called together a hunt for the werewolf that had the Silmarril. They found the wolf and killed it, but it mortally wounded Beren in the process. He died in Luthien's arms and the grief of his passing killed her as well. But the gods were so moved by their story of bravery, courage, and honor that they decreed to allow the two of them to live out the rest of their lives as mortals; which they did, happily ever after."

Timmy looked over Mr. Kain with a critical eye. He thought for a moment then said, "I liked it," and jumped to his feet.

The man breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief and took a sip from his mug.

As Timmy got up to leave, he added, "Oh tell your mother I hope she feels better."

Timmy palmed the door and walked through as it slid open. Walking back down the hall he peered out the window again. The view from this side of the craft was different; a blanket of stars covered the overreaching blackness that seemed to extend on into infinity.

Turning around, Timmy palmed the first door he saw and walked in. Opposite the door, the Artist was staring at the flames of a synthetic fire, the back of his brush absently tapping on a canvass. As the door slid closed, the Artist turned around.

"Bonjour Timmy."

"Hello," Timmy said cautiously. He took a step forward and peaked around at the canvass. It was blank. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"My boy, I am sowing the seeds of inspiration," he said smiling widely.

Timmy stood in the middle of the room at a loss for words. "Maybe you can help me," the Artist offered. "My eyes are stimulated but my ears sit uselessly on my head." He gestured strangely to his ears. Timmy looked at him blankly.

"Why don't you tell me a story, sil vous plait?" he finished.

Shrugging, Timmy sat down and the artist returned his head to the blank canvass. Timmy racked his brains but he could only remember one story. Slowly, he began, "Once there was a boy…"

"Aye, aye, aye," the Artist interrupted waving a hand. Timmy stopped, puzzled.

"Hmm…" he paused and scratched the scraggly beard on his chin with a thin finger. "I didn't ask you to read me an essay, I asked you to tell me a story."

Timmy nodded and started again, "Once there was a boy who lived in a desolate town…"

The artist waved his hand again, interrupting him. "Better, but still not good, I want to see the feeling in it."

Timmy looked on, confused. "Don't you mean hear the feeling?" he asked.

"I want to hear it and see it and smell it and taste it. Make me experience it. Ethos, make me there," he finished with a flourish.

Timmy tried again, "Once there was a boy who lived in a desolate town that had no trees or animals…"

"Ahhhh," the Artist sighed, "tres bien. But...it is still missing something. Let me see," he paused for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

Finally he stood up straighter and said, "Speaking means stripping yourself of every purpose, every foregone conclusion, to be ready to catch a voice that makes itself heard when you least expect it, a voice that comes from an unknown source, from somewhere beyond the story." [2]

Now Timmy was very confused. "What does that mean," he asked blatantly.

The Artist smiled and shrugged, "I have no idea, but it's the most beautiful description of speaking I have ever heard."

From down the hall, a bell rang. "We better head out to lunch. You're not finished here," he added, waving a thin finger at Timmy. "A beautiful story should leave an audience speechless and silent. Some day you'll get that," he promised.

The Artist bid Timmy adieu, lingering in his room as the flickering flames drew his eyes once more. He wet his brush, and placed it to the canvass with a strange new expression on his face. Timmy left by himself and wandered back down the hall back to the kitchen. He saw Mrs. Margaret still puttering around the space and groaned as he thought of lunch.

"It better not be tapioca pudding again," he thought to himself.

* * *

***Spoilers***

[1] Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury (Revelations 22:2, The Bible)

[2] If On a Winter's Night a Traveler, Italo Calvino


	2. Of Vice and Virtue

Lunchtime rolled around and passed quickly. Timmy wandered around the halls for a while until he found himself in a tiny room with the Captain.

Captain Dean Ramirez was busy writing something on a notepad, so Timmy tried to sneak out before he was noticed. The sound of the door sliding open gave him away however and the Captain's head whipped around. He relaxed when he saw Timmy and motioned for him to sit down. Reluctantly, the boy sat and groaned on the inside as he saw the notepad.

The diagram on it portrayed a rectangular playing field with what looked like goals on either side. Placed in strategic locations around the inside of the field were large squares. These squares were being covered by groups of Xs and Os.

The Captain handed him the pad and a pen, "All right Timmy, these are your men. What's your move?"

Timmy looked over the field. He scratched his head then drew a line and shot the Captain a questioning look.

"Nice try private, but that's a rookie mistake. They'd just send a few of their men here and here," he pointed to the pad with a stubby finger, "and you'd be caught between them. Hammer and anvil."

Timmy shook his head and handed the pad back to the Captain. He took it and placed the pen to the paper, "Now see this, here's what Ender did," he drew a line slightly above Timmy's that dragged on for a bit longer. "This way, when they come to ambush you, you can send another toon in up here," he drew a second line, "and flash 'em all from behind; backstab 'em; give 'em the old one, two." The Captain shouted, punctuating the last phrase with two quick jabs that nearly sent him flying backwards out of his chair in artificial gravity.

He handed the pad back to Timmy saying, "You oughta study this, they're only gonna get harder from here on out."

Before the sergeant could think of anything else, Timmy let himself back out into the hallway. He dropped the pad into a waste shoot and palmed the first doorway he could find. Inside he found the three siblings playing a game of poker.

Allan slammed his hand down in disgust as Clemmens raked in the chips. Lex laughed from across the table.

"Come on, Allan, you gotta keep your calm better then that!"

"Yeah man, that yell sounded like a Balrog's screech." The two of them burst into laughter as Allan grew redder. Then they all noticed Timmy and suddenly grew quiet.

"Hey guys, I'm a little lost…what's a Balrog," Timmy asked looking from one blank face to the next.

Then all three of them smiled in unison, "Oh boy, wouldn't want to run into one of those on the way home from work, would you Lex?"

"Oh heavens no, with their flaming thongs and massive wings."

"Oh come on, they do not have wings!" Clemmens piped up.

Timmy looked on in confusion. He felt the conversation was getting away from where he wanted to go so he cleared his throat loudly. The three of them stopped arguing and turned back to him.

Clemmens spoke up first. "Sorry Timmy, a Balrog is a Maiar that attacked the Fellowship in the mines of Moria. It's kind of a fire demon thing that wields swords, flaming whips, and doesn't...have...wings."

He said the last part very slowly, punctuating each word. Timmy let himself out when Allan began banging on the table and the chips began to fly.

Back out in the hallway, he heard raised voices. He backtracked and found himself standing at the door to the kitchen, which was now crowded after accommodating only three people. He put his ear to the door but it was hardly necessary because the next voice was a shout.

"I don't care if the entire Earth is up in flames, I just want to go home and see my wife." There was a loud bang. The door opened and Timmy quickly jumped back twiddling his thumbs. But Mrs. Margaret and the Captain barely noticed him. Timmy wandered into the kitchen and saw Peety with his head in his hands, a mug of imitation coffee untouched beside him.

He sat down quietly, but somehow Peety sensed his presence and looked up. He gave the boy a rueful smile and took a sip from the mug. Timmy didn't really know what to say so he just sat on a crate and looked at the cabinets. Eventually Peety spoke up, "Jealousy isn't something you should keep bottled up," he said quietly.

Timmy nodded and Peety continued, "I left my wife in the early stages of terminal cancer because they told me I had to put the needs of my country before my own needs. And now they tell me this god-forsaken ship might not go down for another two months..." he paused and ran a hand through his hair, "I swear if I could I would fly this thing down there myself. But instead I seemed to have settled for taking all my anger out on everyone whose loved ones aren't terminally ill."

Timmy looked on in silence. He knew about Peety's wife, everyone on board did. They hadn't been allowed any communications with Earth yet, but everyone could see the stress of not knowing was getting to him. "Jealousy is a dangerous thing. Have you heard the story of Cupid and Psyche?"

Timmy shook his head.

"Psyche was sentenced to be sacrificed to the goddess Aphrodite because her incredible beauty made the goddess of love jealous. But when her sister, Orual comes to rescue her, she finds she is not imprisoned or under threat of death, but wed to the god Cupid, and living in a castle where nothing can be seen. Jealous of her sister's beauty and good fortune, Orual convinces her to do the one thing Cupid has forbidden her to, look at him when he comes home to her bed. When she does, she is banished and Orual is left without a sister and feeling guilt for what she has done, and what she has lost."

Peety paused and took a sip from his mug. He frowned, "Be careful of emotions, Timmy. They can run wild and wreak havoc if you let them."

He stood up, pat the boy on the back and exited the kitchen, rubbing his eyes like a boy just waken from a nightmare.

After his talk with Peety, Timmy felt sad. He sat in the kitchen for a while until the door slid open again and Mrs. Margaret walked in. She looked apologetically at the boy and sat down next to him. "I'm sorry you had to hear all that sweetie."

"It's okay," Timmy replied. Then added, "Peety said he was jealous. I think he's is sorry he yelled at you."

Mrs. Margaret frowned. "It's not jealousy that is making him angry, it's love. He's stressed about his wife, and I feel terrible for him, I really do. But you know he can't go home now. War could erupt down there at any moment and we need people like him when the time comes."

She stood up and walked over to a cabinet. Reaching inside, she returned with her hand closed tight. She opened it to reveal a chunk of milky brown chocolate. She handed it to Timmy, whose hand closed around it like a million dollars. Mrs. Margaret smiled.

"Do you know what Peety does, or did, rather?"

Timmy shook his head slowly as he nibbled on the chunk of chocolate, savoring every bit of the treat.

"His wife inspired him to enter cancer research. He's a scientist, an innovator, and some day, he's going to save a lot of lives. I just hope his wife's is one of them," she said wistfully.

She went on, "It's people like him Timmy, that run the world. Not kings or presidents or politicians. It's the inventors, the scientists, and the engineers. Their innovation forms the gears that turn the motor of the world. Without them…the world stops."

"If Atlas shrugged," Timmy said quietly, quoting Mrs. Margaret's favorite phrase.

"Exactly," Mrs. Margaret smiled and got up. "All right, you sit tight and I'm going to make you some dinner.

Timmy made it almost all the way through his bowl of beans and the stale loaf of bread before retiring back to his room. As he sat in bed, he thought about the things that Peety and Mrs. Margaret had told him. His mother came in to his room. She sat down on the bed heavily beside him and scratched his head as he fell asleep to the words of the tale of the Brothers Grimm.

"There was once a shoemaker, who worked very hard and was very honest: but still he could not earn enough to live upon; and at last all he had in the world was gone, save just leather enough to make one pair of shoes…"


	3. From Dust to Dust

When he woke up the next morning, Timmy couldn't find anyone. He searched the kitchen and all the rooms along the halls, but nobody was anywhere to be seen. Finally he climbed the ladder up to the Captain's quarters. As his head cleared the hatch, he saw what appeared to be everyone on board gathered around the main console.

He tried hopping on one foot to see over everyone but he could only make out a few shapes on the screen. He climbed up onto the table. From the viewpoint he could make out what appeared to be a text-only document. He tried to lean forward to make out the words…and toppled over with a crash.

Everyone looked around. Timmy smiled sheepishly. Allan laughed and grabbed him, pulling him up onto his shoulders. Over the heads of everyone Timmy read the message.

The message was very long, and the only part that Timmy understood was the last passage. The ship would be returning to Earth soon.

Suddenly, Peety dropped the stack of papers he had been holding and hugged Mrs. Margaret. The Captain gave him a stern pat on the back, then sat down in front of the console as everyone began to disperse. By the time Timmy had climbed back down the ladder and into the kitchen, everyone was gone save for the Professors. They alone had seemed to be disheartened by the news from Earth.

Timmy sat down at the table. Professor Kirk looked up and gave him a strained smile, "Hello Timmy."

"Hi Professor."

Professor Kirk looked back down at the table. Professor Andrews gave Timmy a small wave, "It must be strange, seeing us so upset while the rest of you are happy at the news. Peety gets to see his wife, we all get to return home..." he trailed off.

"Why are you so sad Professor?"

Kirk scratched his head and sighed. "Most of the people on this ship, your presence excluded," he gave Timmy another smile, "are old enough to have experienced the last war. But as two of the oldest ones on this ship, Professor Andrews and I was here for the one before that as well. And the fact that we're returning to Earth, means another one has been waged. War is a delicate subject. As asinine as it sounds, there is such thing as a humane war. Sometimes we have no choice but to fight. To break from bondage, like in the Revolutionary War, to prevent catastrophe, like in the Civil War, or to stop tyranny, like in World War II."

"As Merlyn told Wart, the child King Arthur..." Andrews interjected. Professor Kirk glared at him, and Andrews to finish meekly, "the only justification for war, is to prevent another war. Like the fish, geese, and the wise badger, might is not always right."

"Yes, Professor Andrews is right. And since then, wars have been fought for the wants and needs of few men. Apart from them, all it does is hurt people. With these wars, it's Troy all over again."

The boy looked a little confused. Professor Andrews looked apologetically at him as Kirk ploughed on, oblivious, "In the Trojan War, the Greeks fought the Trojans to take back the wife of a Greek king who ran off with a Trojan prince. A good reason as any to start a war if you see women as they did back then: property."

"Not that he advocates that," Professor Andrews said quickly. Timmy nodded. "Women are people too; but that's a talk for when you're older."

"Anyway," Kirk continued, now slightly irked, "the wife of the king, Helen, the most beautiful woman in the world, was the guise under which the war was fought. But at heart, it was the greed of one man, the high king of Greece that drove it. And even after the Greek king defeated the prince in single combat, the war dragged on and on. So although the message from Earth seems like good news, to us, it just means another war has been fought, and more men have been dragged to fight in the name of nationality, like marionettes to a puppeteer, for no cause other then to fuel an election campaign."

Professor Kirk shook his head and returned his gaze to the table. Professor Andrews gave Timmy one last smile before putting a hand on his friend's back, talking to him quietly. Timmy took the cue and left the kitchen. He walked along the hall all the way to the end.

Sitting on a small crate in front of a huge canvass that took up most of the hallway was the Artist. Outside the window he could see the huge globe of Earth. Mirrored on the canvass was a similar globe, but this one was filled with scenes of destruction: burning cities, explosions, and broken landscapes. From out of the center of the globe, rose a flaming bird.

Timmy stood studying the drawing before the Artist turned around and spotted him. He dropped his paintbrush into the can and beckoned the boy forward, "Bonjour, Timmy. How are you?"

Smiling at the Artist, Timmy stepped forwards and knelt down next to him. Studying the painting up close, he could see the individual brushstrokes that made up the bird, its fiery feathers accented with long, messy strokes.

"What is that," Timmy asked, gesturing vaguely to the painting before him.

"Ah, my boy, a good artist never explains his art," he said, smiling at the pout on Timmy's face, "But for you, mis ami, I will make an exception."

"This," he said gesturing to the globe, "Is the Earth. And this," he said, gesturing to the bird in the center, "Is the phoenix."

Timmy was still confused. "The Phoenix was a bird from ancient myth. Every hundred years or so, it would build up a funeral pyre and burn itself up. And then, inevitably, it would rise from the ashes, born again." The Artist chuckled, "A wise man once said it must have been first cousin to man."

Timmy lifted his arms up and looked at them. "But I don't have wings, and I can't be reborn in a funeral pyre."

The Artist laughed, "Not man in the sense of you and I, but man as a collective whole; humanity is the phoenix. Every now and again, we burn ourselves up in the fires of a thousand suns, and we leave civilization in flames and wreckage," he gestured to the painting again. "But every time, we rise out of the ashes and build ourselves up again…only to burn ourselves right back down to dust. 'From dust you were made, and to dust you will return.' [1] It's vicious cycle and as long as it's carried on in the same way, we can't escape it."

The Artist frowned and sat down by his canvass, brooding. As the boy got up to leave, the Artist said, "By the way, my boy, I thought I saw your parents rush by just a short while ago. You might want to go check in on them."

Timmy nodded and walked back out into the the hall. While walking, he glanced sideways, outside a window. The globe of Earth spun slowly out of view, giving way to the blackness dotted intermittently with pinpoints of light. Timmy reached his room and palmed the door. It slid open and he walked inside.

On his bed sat Father West. On seeing Timmy enter the cramped room, he pat the bed beside him. Timmy walked over slowly and sat down. He looked up at the priest, "Do you know where my parents are?"

The priest put an arm around his shoulders. "Your father rushed your mother to the hospital room about twenty minutes ago. Do you want me to take you over there?"

Timmy sat with his hands clasped together and his legs swung beneath him, intertwined. Father West put an arm on his shoulder. "Can I just stay here for a while?"

The priest nodded and Timmy sat back against the wall. They sat in silence.

Time passed and Timmy looked down at his feet, "I don't want to go see my mom."

The Priest looked him over slowly, "Is that really how you feel? Tell me what's in your heart. As a wise fox said, one sees clearly on with the heart."

Timmy frowned. "I'm afraid to go see her," he told the priest quietly.

The Priest sighed, "Sometimes it's hard to face the things we fear, even if they are things we also love. There was once a Prince who lived on a small planet all alone, save for a rose. And he loved the rose, and she loved him back. When the Prince left and arrived on the planet Earth he met a wise fox, who helped him understand how much the rose meant to him. The Prince realized he had to return to his planet so he could see his rose again."

Timmy looked up at the priest. "Can you promise me everything's going to be okay?"

The old man smiled, "I promise."

Timmy sat up straighter, "Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

* * *

[1] Genesis 3:19, The Bible


	4. Sowing New Seeds

Timmy's father sat in a chair outside the hospital room. Timmy walked up to him and sat down beside him. His father looked about as nervous as he was. He held out his hand and his father took it.

"Your mother kicked me out because I was starting to break things. She said it would be better for me to relax out here."

Timmy nodded and swung his legs back and forth, "Dad, what's going to happen when this is all over?"

His father sighed, "Well, the ship's going down soon."

"We're going home." The wide eyes that punctuated the look made his father feel bad about the news he would have to break.

"Home, but it won't be the same. Timmy, they sent us up here so they could protect us. They need our wisdom, our stories, to help rebuild."

"Rebuild what?"

His father sighed, "Timmy do you know why this ship was Christened, U.S.S. Marshall?"

Timmy shook his head and his father continued, "After World War II, the allied forces were faced with a similar situation that resulted from the First World War, the countries of the axis powers were broken. In fact, it was that economic climate in post World War I Germany that led to the rise of the Nazi Party. But we learned from our mistakes. Instead of capitalizing on axis failure, as they did in after the first war, they agreed to help rebuild the countries. That was called the Marshall Plan."

"Fast-forward a bit," he father continued starkly, "When it became apparent that the way we were dealing with things around here wasn't working, some of us decided we needed to change our approach. Officially, this is just some old cargo ship and its got no name. But us up here, we christened it. Because we know what out duty is, and what we're capable of. You, Timmy, were chosen as one of the people that would help save the world, remember?"

Timmy frowned, "Save the world? How are we going to do that? Those guys down there have guns and bombs and nukes. All we've got is words."

"Words are powerful things. The wounds of war have been healed by the right words. Before the Marshall Plan and the end of the war, in a basement, beneath Nazi occupied Germany, a Jewish man gave a gift of words to a girl. It was in a little book called _The Word Shaker_."

His father sat back in his chair, "When one man sees the power of words he decides he wants to rule the world with them. He plants the seeds of words and spreads his black propaganda around the world. He hires word shakers to climb high into the trees and shake the words down so they rain upon the people and contaminate them. But one girl resists the words. She befriends a man who is hated by her own country and together they grow the seed of a new tree. The girl plants the tree and it grows taller and higher then any of the other trees. The man who sought to rule the world was angry and went to cut down the tree with an axe. But the tree was too strong and the girl climbed high above the reach of the axe. Her friend returned to the tree and climbed up and they met atop its branches. Finally the tree fell, crushing many of the smaller trees and creating a path through them. Together the girl and her friend followed the path above the forest of evil trees and many followed them."

His father put an arm around his son's shoulders. "Words on their own have no power. There's no magic combination that said in some special order will do anything you want. The power comes from the meaning behind them. What you intend to use them to do. They can be used for destruction and evil, and in the right hands, they can wreak havoc. But our words are different. They are words of healing. When this ship returns home, we are going to get off and we are going to start the healing. The people will be in shock, but we will sit with them, and tell them our stories of love and war, sorrow and joy, and hopefully they will tell us stories of their own. We'll sow the seeds of hope, and we'll grow our own trees. And together, we will heal them, not with our words, but with what they mean."

He pat his son on the back, "And that means you're going to need to be able to tell your story. Can you do that?"

Timmy nodded again, thinking back to what the artist had told him, "I may need a little practice."

His father smiled and ran a hand through his hair, "We'll get you all the practice you need. Now let's go see your mom."

The two stood, side by side, and walked into the hospital room behind them. Timmy's mother lay on a bed, sweaty and exhausted and being tended to by a nurse.

And in her arms was nestled a baby girl.

The two males gasped and ran over to mom. She smiled weakly, "She's beautiful. Isn't she?"

Timmy was speechless as he looked on at his baby sister. "Do you want to hold her?" His mother asked abruptly.

Timmy held out his hands and his mother placed the tiny child in his arms. He held the baby close and he could feel her breath coming in and out. Suddenly, she began to cry.

Timmy was baffled; he looked desperately from mother to father, "What do I do?" He asked.

They shrugged, "Try rocking her."

He did and to no avail. Timmy rocked her, bounced her, patted her back, and still the baby cried on and on. Comically, it seemed hard to believe that a newborn child has enough stamina to cry for this long. "Maybe you ought to hand her back to your mother," his dad began.

"Wait," Timmy said, "Let me try this one thing."

Timmy searched deep inside himself and found the voice. He harnessed it, letting it flow out of him like a melody. As the words slid smoothly from his lips he knew he had finally got it right.

"Once there was a boy who lived in a desolate town that had no trees or animals, only factories and smoke. One day, the boy stumbled upon the lair of the being known as the Once-ler. The Once-ler told him about how the town was once filled with trees and animals and it was colorful and bright. But the Once-ler began to cut down the trees to create his new invention, Thneeds. The Lorax appeared to speak for the trees who had no tongues, but the Once-ler ignored him and kept on chopping. Soon all the trees were gone and then so were the animals and the Lorax. The town turned desolate and the Once-ler realized his mistake. He realized he was responsible for the way the town was, and there was nothing he could do to fix it. Unless…"

"Catch! calls the Once-ler. He lets something fall.  
It's a Truffula Seed. It's the last one of all!  
You're in charge of the last of the Truffula Seeds.  
And Truffula Trees are what everyone needs.  
Plant a new Truffula. Treat it with care.  
Give it clean water. And feed it fresh air.  
Grow a forest. Protect it from axes that hack.  
Then the Lorax and all of his friends may come back." [1]

Timmy didn't know when in the story the baby had stopped crying, but by the end, she had closed her eyes and was sleeping peacefully in his arms. His mother and father mimed clapping, making sure to keep very quiet. Timmy laid the baby down in her new bed.

He turned to his parents, "I like her, what's her name?" He asked.

They smiled and said in unison, "Hope."

Timmy thought about the men and women who had occupied the ship with him for the duration of his stay. He saw the look of elation in Peety's eyes when he received the news that the ship was returning home, and the look of desperation in Professor Kirk's eyes when he realized this meant another pointless war. He saw the burning creativity in the artist's eyes as his brush swept across the canvass, wanting to share what his hands and his mouth were capable of with the new world. He saw the compassion in the priest's eyes as he sat with Timmy while his mother struggled in labor.

There was a sharp rumble as the craft reentered the Earth's atmosphere, but the baby, Hope, slept soundly through it.

"We thought it was a pretty name," his mother offered.

"Yeah," Timmy breathed, "Hope is a beautiful thing."

* * *

***Spoilers***

[1] The Lorax, Dr. Seuss


End file.
